UC-NRLF 


*B    31b    SSb 


LUTE 

AND 

FURROW 


OLJVE  TILFORD 
DARGAN        ^"^ 


,5^  -. 


7 


BY   OLIVE   TILFORD   DARGAN 


THE  MORTAL   GODS  AND    OTHER   PLAYS 
LORDS  AND  LOVERS  AND   OTHER  DRAMAS 
THE  CYCLE'S  RIM 

THE   PATH  FLOWER  AND    OTHER  VERSE 
LUTE  AND   FURROW 


With  Frederic  Peterson 

THE    FLUTTER     OF     THE    GOLD    LEAF    AND 
OTHER   PLAYS 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


LUTE  AND  FURROW 


LUTE  AND  FURROW 


BY 
OLIVE  TILFORD  DARGAN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  May,  1922 


CONTENTS 

I 

PAGE 

Lute  and  Furrow 3 

"It  Will  Be  a  Hard  Winter" 

9 

In  an  Alms-House  Garden 

12 

Francesca  (1904-19 1 7) 

13 

To  A  Texas  Primrose 

23 

Ballad  of  a  Wooing 

26 

Evening  above  Saranac 

. 

28 

Job  31  : 1   . 

29 

On  Clingman  Dome 

30 

Song 

■       32 

After  the  Game 

•       33 

Returning 

•       35 

The  New  Freedom 

.       36 

The  Fourth  Watch 

37 

Doris 

•       39 

My  Lawyer 

40 

ETA n cr o  I 


CONTENTS 


"Helen's  Lips  are  Drifting  Dust" 

PAGE 
41 

The  Pierian  Spring  To-day 

41 

Sall*s  Gap 

42 

Twilight  under  Black  Cap 

49 

Compact    .         .         .         . 

55 

Listeners  .... 

56 

To  A  Young  Girl 

57 

Italy          .         .         . 

58 

Astray       .... 

60 

Fatherland 

61 

Defiance  .... 

•       63 

n 


Laughter  .... 

.         .       69 

On  the  Mountain     . 

•       71 

I  Take  a  Walk 

.       72 

The  God   .... 

.       76 

We  Creators     . 

.       79 

Attention 

•       79 

VI 


CONTENTS 


Twilight 

, 

PAGS 
80 

When  Lying  on  a  Bank  of  Twin-Flowers      8o 

Ewie's  Mother         .         .         .         .         .       8i 

Pace  Tua  . 

85 

Snow  in  the  Coiton  Field 

89 

The  Poem 

90 

August  Evening 

91 

Advice        .... 

92 

On    Certain    State    Advisers 
Public 

AND 

Theu 

93 

The  Arctic  Girl 

.       94 

Apology     .... 

•       95 

Who  Shall  Measure? 

.       96 

Kartajaya 

•       97 

Tolstoi      .... 

.       98 

Burning  Bridges 

.       99 

III 

In  the  Black  Country 
Home  .         . 

vii 


108 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

En  Route no 

The  Coming       ......  113 

Ballad  of  Trafalgar  Square   .         .         •  nS 

IV 

Innis-Loe 125 

Released            ......  128 

The  Sea  Asks    ......  133 

To  John  Reed            .....  139 


Vlll 


LUTE    AND    FURROW 

I 

The  winter  has  grown  so  still 
I  can  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
Where  the  stream  beneath  the  bridge 
Is  dry  as  a  heart  after  grief. 
And  hear  at  the  top  of  the  ridge 
The  wind  as  it  lifts  a  leaf. 

At  last  there  is  time,  I  say; 

I  will  shut  out  the  strife  to-day; 

I  will  take  up  my  pen  and  once  more 

Meet  that  stranger,  my  soul,  nor  be  dumb 

As  when  earth  was  the  whirlwind's  floor, 

And  Life  at  her  loom  sat  numb. 

Springs,  many  as  ever  have  been. 
On  sandals  of  moss  shall  slip  in; 
There  is  time  for  the  laugh  we  would  fling, 
3 


•  •  •    •    • 

•  •  •  •     • 


:\:  •••Ji'tiX  E :  ^ND.-'F U  R  R  O  W 

For  the  wiping  of  dust  from  our  stars, 
For  a  bee  on  his  marketing  wing, 
For  the  forester  wind's  wild  wares. 

Comes  the  joy  and  the  rushing  pulse 
That  m  beauty's  beginning  exults; 
Then  the  weight  tied  fast  to  the  heart; 
The  doubt  that  deadens  the  dawn; 
And  the  raining  sting  and  the  smart 
Of  invisible  whips  laid  on. 

II 

What  is  this  sudden  gaiety  that  shakes  the  greyest 

boughs  ? 
A  voice  is  calling  fieldward,  'tis  time  to  start  the 

ploughs ! 
To  set  the  furrows  rolling  while  all  the  old  crows 

nod. 
And  deep  as  life,  the  kernel,  to  cut  the  golden 

sod ! 
The  pen,  let  nations  have  It, — we'll  plough  awhile 

for  God. 

4 


LUTE    AND    FURROW 

When  half  the  things  that  must  be  done  are  greater 
than  our  art, 

And  half  the  things  that  must  be  done  are  smaller 
than  our  heart, 

And  poorest  gifts  are  dear  to  burn  on  altars  un- 
revealed. 

Like  music  comes  the  summons,  the  challenge  from 
the  weald, — 

"They  tread  immortal  measure  who  make  a  mel- 
low field!" 

The  planet  may  be  pleasant,  alluring  in  its  way; 

But  let  the  ploughs  be  idle,  and  none  of  us  can 
stay. 

Here's  where  there  is  no  doubting,  no  ghosts  un- 
certain stalk, 

A-travelling  with  the  plough  beam,  beneath  the 
sailing  hawk. 

Cutting  the  furrow  deep  and  true  where  Destiny 
will  walk. 


LUTE    AND    FURROW 

III 

The  winter  has  grown  so  still 
I  can  pause  and  pluck  what  I  will 
From  the  arms  of  Time  as  he  goes. 
All  the  poems  with  beauty  half-hid, 
Yet  touching  my  haste  like  a  rose. 
May  fall  to  me  now  if  I  bid. 

There's  the  book  whose  pages  shall  read 

Like  the  hearts  of  old  friends,  who  will  need 

For  its  quaint  flowered  paths  no  guide. 

And  into  the  late,  sweet  night 

Will  smile  as  they  lay  it  aside — 

The  book  that  they  once  meant  to  write; 

And  one  that  may  haunt  a  strange  road. 
Like  a  voice  blown  low  from  a  wood. 
And  be  song  to  the  wanderer  there. 
Till  the  inn  is  a  dark  thing  and  cold, 
And  the  night  is  a  roof-tree  dear. 
And  the  moon  his  hearth  of  warm  gold; 


LUTE    AND    FURROW 

And  that  other  whose  music  may  be 

As  a  flight  of  birds  to  the  sea; 

To  the  far  island  beaches  made  brave 

With  the  feet  of  to-morrows;  where  strain 

The  lifters  of  stone  from  the  grave 

Of  the  world  we  have  dreamed  us  and  slain. 

IV 

Reproach  is  dark  upon  me;  I  almost  grasp  the  pen; 

When  comes  a  laugh  like  daybreak,  and  "Winter's 
broke/'  says  Len. 

His  eye  is  like  a  highpriest's  as  glowingly  he  'lows 

He  saw  a  bat  by  daylight  fly  roun'  the  pigeon- 
house. 

"Ain't  no  time  now  for  foolin',  we  got  to  start  the 
ploughs." 

We'll  set  the  furrows  rolling,  and  drop  the  yellow 

corn; 
We'll  plough  along  the  universe  that  babies  may  be 

bom. 
Ay,  no  more  time  for  fooling,  here's  task  without 

a  bound; 

7 


LUTE    AND    FURROW 

It*s  not  the  tame  old  earth  now  that*s  spinning  us 

around; 
It's  Jupiter  and  Neptune  when  the  plough  is  in  the 

ground. 

How  light,  how  light  the  heart  grows  with  some- 
thing surely  done ! 

When  all  the  ploughs  are  going,  and  all  the  tasks 
are  one ! 

Then  Fame's  a  lass  that  smirks  too  late;  the  sun's 
a  brother  lout; 

The  moon's  a  lantern  in  our  hand;  the  stars  are 
fieldmen  stout. 

Oh,  luck  to  die  in  ploughing  time, — 'twill  be  just 
one  step  out ! 


*IT  WILL  BE  A  HARD    WINTER'* 

They  say  the  blue  king  jays  have  flown 

From  woods  of  Westchester; 

So  I  to  Luthany  shall  flee, 

But  I  will  make  no  stir; 

For  who  fair  Luthany  would  see 

Must  set  him  forth  alone. 

In  screwing  winds  last  night  the  snow 

Creaked  like  an  angry  jinn; 

And  two  old  men  from  up  the  State, 

Said  "Bears  went  early  in"; 

Half  pausing  by  my  ice-locked  gate; 

"March  will  be  late  to  blow." 

So  I  for  Luthany  am  bound; 
But  I  will  take  no  pack. 
You  can  not  find  the  way,  you  know. 
With  feet  that  leave  a  track; 
But  light  as  blowing  leaf  must  go; 
And  you  must  hear  a  sound 
9 


IT  WILL  BE  A  HARD  WINTER" 

That's  like  a  singing  strange  and  high 

Of  bird  youVe  never  seen; 

Then  two  ghosts  come;  like  doves  they  move; 

While  you  must  walk  between; 

And  one  is  Youth  and  one  is  Love, 

Who  say  "We  did  not  die." 

The  harp-built  walls  of  Luthany 
Are  builded  high  and  strong 
To  shelter  singer,  fool  and  seer. 
And  glad  they  live  and  long. 
All  others  die  who  enter  there. 
But  they  are  safe,  these  three. 

The  seer  can  warm  his  body  through 

By  some  far  fire  he  sees; 

The  fool  can  naked  dance  in  snow; 

The  singer — as  he  please  ! 

And  which  I  be  of  these,  Oh  ho ! 

That  is  a  guess  for  you. 

Once  in  a  thousand  years,  they  say, 
The  walls  are  beaten  down; 

lO 


IT  WILL  BE  A  HARD   WINTER'' 

And  then  they  find  a  singer  dead, 
But  swift  they  set  a  crown 
Upon  his  lowly  careless  head, 
And  sing  his  song  for  aye. 

So  I  to  Luthany  shall  flee. 
While  here  the  winter  raves; 
God  send  I  go  not  as  one  blind 
A-dancing  upon  graves; 
God  save  a  madman  if  I  find 
War's  heel  on  Luthany. 

1917 


II 


IN    AN    ALMS-HOUSE    GARDEN 

Here  gnarled  old  men  as  stooped  as  trees 

Youth  wounded,  not  to  die. 
Quaver  the  old  philosophies, 

And  drift  around  the  sky. 

Or  glad,  so  glad,  since  work  is  done, 

And  no  man  knows  his  grave. 
They  sit  a  little  in  the  sun, 

And  watch  the  warm  grass  wave. 


12 


FRANCESCA 

(1904-1917) 

I 

Sweet  of  the  dawn  is  she ! 
Sure  of  her  garlands  fair, 
Sure  of  her  morning  brief, 
With  what  an  air 
She  hands  Eternity 
A  bud,  a  leaf ! 

Far  down  a  world  wound-red 
All  unappalled  she  looks; 
Where  I  stare  barrenly 
She  beauty  plucks 
From  an  untrampled  bed, 
Till  suddenly  I  see. 

Once  more  a  star  shall  break 
For  me  the  crocus'  mould; 
The  full  year's  end  sleep  in 
A  marigold; 

13 


FRANCESCA 

And  firs  in  the  snow  wood  shake 
Locks  of  genie  and  jinn. 

Again  over  earth  and  me 

Shall  fall  the  coverlet 

Spread  by  a  godmother  moon, 

Till  we  forget 

The  thin,  gold  irony 

That  hid  nor  scar  nor  bone. 

How  sweet  with  her  to  climb 
Youth's  pilotless  old  trail ! 
Along  sky  ledges  haste. 
Palms  to  the  gale 
That  showers  song  and  rhyme 
As  petals  blow  and  waste ! 

And  when  in  mothy  light 
Of  trees  and  listening  dusk, 
I  see  her  filmy  go 
To  him,  her  knight. 
What  sap  of  bloom  shall  flow 
Into  dream's  silvered  husk ! 
14 


FRANCESCA 

What  if,  at  her  matron  knee 
In  some  yet  covered  year. 
The  bardling  I  never  bore 
Has  sound  of  the  hidden  sea 
That  calls  till  a  heart,  or  a  sphere. 
Is  dumb  no  more? 

My  wand  is  she  that  smites 
Open  the  prophet's  wall; 
My  arrow  in  the  sun, 
Sped  for  no  fall; 
My  bird  along  the  heights 
Where  I  shall  never  run ! 

II 

She  sleeps  now. 

Her  hair,  vaguely  hooding  her  cheek, 

Fills  me  with  strange  music. 

Like  the  dark-flowing  water  of  snow  fields. 

Her  brow,  that  was  mere,  frail  porcelain, 

Holding  a  child's  few  treasures. 

Is  a  pale,  prophetic  expanse 

Over  dreams  that  bide  their  vast  venture. 

15 


FRANCESCA 

I  gaze  long  at  the  face, 

Thinking  at  last  I  shall  know  her; 

For  awake  she  is  always  hiding 

In  ripples  and  pools  of  change. 

Waves  of  April  flow  round  her, 

And  she  is  my  willow  witch 

Weaving  her  web  of  winds 

Above  the  blue  water; 

But  she  lifts  her  eyes. 

Like  two  hours  of  June, 

And  is  so  nearly  a  rose 

That  to-morrow  the  dawn  will  be  lapping 

Gold  from  her  open  heart; 

Then  a  laugh  like  Christmas  day 

Shuffles  the  seasons. 

And  I  see  chrysanthemums  in  a  Southern  garden; 

White  breasts  in  the  dusk. 

But  now  she  sleeps;  no,  stirs; 
Stirs  with  the  covetous  fever 
That  creeps  like  a  secret  panther 
By  the  wariest  watch  of  lovers. 

i6 


FRANCESCA 

"Talk  to  me,  Tifa,  talk." 
"Of  what,  dear  Beauty?" 
"Oh,  that  is  it — beauty." 
I  lose  a  whisper  and  wait. 

"The  song — the  song  we  heard " 

And  I  know  I  must  tell  again 

The  story  of  the  bird,  a  lowland  rover 

That  high  above  our  mountain  orchard 

Sang  till  a  cadent  coast 

Lay  on  the  unbodied  air, 

And  all  our  outbound  dreams  put  back 

Where  his  music  made  a  shore. 

(Words,  words !     So  soft  that  they  may  fall  on 
pain 
And  make  it  less !     Softer  than  leaves 
Tapping  a  forest  sleeper;  while  the  heart 
Is  like  a  swollen  glacier  crowding  earth.) 

Up  he  went  singing;  climbed  a  spiral  chain 
That  linked  his  song  to  heaven; 
And  circling,  swerving,  rising,  built 

17 


FRANCESCA 

An  airy  masonry  of  smoothest  domes 
And  jetting  minarets,  as  though  he  saw 
From  his  blue  height  a  city  of  the  East, 
And  in  a  music  mirror  set  it  fair 
For  his  high  rapture.    How  it  grew ! 
Slim,  flowing  alleys,  streets  that  wound 
To  temples  cool  as  shaded  lakes; 
Pure  arches,  pillars  of  piled  notes; 
Cornice  and  frieze  and  pendant  flung 
In  rillets  from  one  tiny  heart 
As  prodigal  as  God's ! 

Whaty  dearest?  When  you  die, 
YouUl  stop  and  live  there  ?  Not  go  on 
To  Heaven? 

No;  you  remember 
Our  city  fell;  came  splintering  to  the  grass 
With  all  its  palaces  and  domes; 
Not  one  note  on  another. 
Where  he,  the  breathless  builder,  fluttered, 
Happy  in  ruin. 

i8 


FRANCESCA 

YeSy  he  panted  so  ? 
Tell  you  cool  things? 

(Words,  words ! 
Running  like  water  under  leaves, 
That  they  may  fall  on  pain 
And  make  it  less !) 

Cool,  my  whisperer? 
Then  shall  we  walk  again 
Between  the  winter  and  the  clifF 
Where  green  things  clung? — the  little  venturers 
That  feed  on  shade,  and  tug  at  scornful  boulders 
Till  they  are  gay  and  gentle? 
They  were  all  there,  lustrous  and  shyly  brave; 
The  fronds  and  tresses,  fingers  and  baby's  palm; 
The  curling  tufts,  the  plumelets  proudly  niched, 
And  little  unknown  leaves 
That  make  the  cold  their  mother; 
The  hearts  and  lances  and  unpious  spires 
The  emerald  gates  to  houses  of  the  gnomes; 
The  fairy  tents  that  vanish  at  a  name; 
Each  greener  than  Spring's  footprint  when  her  track 

19 


FRANCESCA 

Is  bright  as  sea-wet  beryl; 

Yet  wearing  like  an  outer  soul 

A  breath  of  crystal  winter. 

So  pearled,  they  waited; 

Small  subject  wonderers  of  a  land 

Whose  king  was  out  o*  doors 

And  would  betimes  go  by. 

He  came — the  sun  ! 

The  swift,  old  marvel  of  the  sun ! 

And  you  were  still  as  every  leaf  he  touched 

Long  after  his  gold  passing. 

Yes,  your  breath 
Went  all  away  into  the  shining? 
God  spoke  too  loud  that  time?     Tell  you — 

Sleep  holds  her.  .  .  . 
But  sleep  comes  creeping,  and  takes 
No  sudden  throne.     If  it  be  not  sleep, 
But  the  other?  .  .  . 

I  sit  in  the  folds  of  a  dread. 
As  in  a  husk  that  widens 
And  swells  till  it  strikes  the  sky. 
20 


FRANCESCA 

Who  is  it  standing,  a  fiend 

Like  a  mountain  darkening  upward, 

Dropping  and  dropping  and  dropping 

The  ocean  into  a  glass? 

Why  are  the  walls  so  near  and  so  cold? 

So  wavering  greenish  and  white? 

Why  are  they  rocking,  and  covered  with  shadows 

That  mightily  grasp  and  fade? 

...  I  know.     We  are  under  the  sea. 

Like  a  petal  her  face  goes  drifting; 

A  white  rose  petal  that  swirls  away. 

Far  up  is  the  water's  clear  surface; 

High  up,  where  the  sky  used  to  be; 

And  above  it  lies  the  good  air. 

We  must  climb,  my  heavenliest  .  .  .  climb ! 

We  can  not  breathe  .  .  .  down  here.  .  .  . 

Under  the  sea. 

Ill 

If  Death  had  taken  my  orange  tree. 
Its  gold-lit  boughs,  and  magic  birds 
Singing  for  me, 

21 


FRANCESCA 

I  would  not  bear,  though  bright  the  dead, 
This  daunted  head. 

If  Death  had  taken  the  one  whose  care 
My  fortune  feeds,  my  roof  endows, — 
Leaving  me  bare, — 

Vd  meet  the  world  from  some  kind  door. 
Gay  as  before. 

If  Death  had  taken  my  friend,  the  god 
Who  walks  among  us  masked  as  man, 
Wearing  the  clod 
To  find  his  brother,  I  could  live. 
Love  and  forgive. 

But  she  was  Beauty;  planets  swing. 
And  ages  toil,  that  one  like  her 
May  make  dust  sing; 
And  I,  who  held  her  hand,  must  go 
Alone  and  know. 


22 


TO    A    TEXAS    PRIMROSE 

A  FLAKE  of  cloud  was  trembling  cast 
Where  April  walked  in  dew; 

Earth  loved  the  alien,  made  it  fast; 
It  blushed,  and  then  was  you. 

So  light  it  seems  you'd  upward  go; 

Then  tender  turn  and  cling, 
And  like  a  maid  at  nod  and  no. 

Grow  sweeter  wavering. 

Still  in  two  worlds  you  hold  a  dower; 

The  snowdrop  of  the  air 
And  rose  of  earth,  here  in  one  flower 

A  double  beauty  dare. 

But  this  thing  lack  you.     (May  it  be 
You  will  not  lack  it  long !) 

YouVe  no  estate  in  poesy; 
No  pedigree  in  song. 

^3 


TO    A    TEXAS    PRIMROSE 

What  lovers  of  the  stern  frontier 

Here  halted,  no  less  brave 
For  wondering  how  you*d  glowing  cheer 

An  uncompanioned  grave  ? 

Heroes,  but  not  of  those  who  go 

To  conquest  pen  in  hand, 
So  left  your  loveliness  to  blow 

Unmeasured  and  unscanned. 

Your  robe,  though  royal  from  old  time 

Ere  rose  and  daffodil. 
Must,  for  the  want  of  broidered  rhyme, 

Kirtle  a  gypsy  still. 

So  shyly  glowing,  meekly  gay. 

And  so  for  music  meet, 
I  wonder  what  would  happen,  say. 

If  I  were  Herrick,  sweet. 

Surely  he'd  smuggle  you  somehow 

Into  the  Muses'  hall. 
And  proud  court  flowers  there  should  bow 

To  a  new  queen  lineal. 
24 


TO    A    TEXAS    PRIMROSE 

With  hint  and  smile  he*d  fix  your  sound 

Unquestioned  dynasty, 
Sending  the  happy  whisper  round, 

Beauty  is  pedigree. 

And  Grasmere's  sage,  if  hereabout 
He  found  your  face  at  dawn, 

Would  silent  sit  the  full  day  out. 
And  dark  would  come  too  soon. 

Then  mumbling  home  he'd  take  you  too. 

Imprisoned  in  a  line; 
No  more  would  you  need  sun  or  dew 

Who  there  so  fixed  would  shine. 

0  delicate  barbarian, 
IVe  no  immortal  art 

To  sing  you  as  the  laurelled  can. 
But  travel  in  my  heart, 

And  though  my  way  be  bare  and  brown. 
And  miles  grow  long  for  me, 

1  vow  I  will  not  set  you  down 
This  side  of  Castaly. 

25 


BALLAD    OF    A    WOOING 

O  PROUDLY  shall  my  lady  tread ! 
These  golden  shoes  I'll  give  her, 
My  silver  harp,  my  ruby  red, 
My  castles  by  the  river. 

But  when  he  met  her  on  the  hills, 
Down  coming  like  a  lily's  flame, 
Her  bare  feet  mid  the  daffodils. 
His  golden  shoes  he  hid  for  shame. 

How  could  he  sing  of  castles  drear. 
Who  with  the  wild  bee  found  her? 
His  silver  harp  how  could  she  hear. 
With  all  God's  birds  around  her? 

And  when  he  heard  her  heart  beat  high. 
And  knew  how  it  could  bleed. 
He  cast  his  ruby  far  to  lie 
Forgot  with  clod  and  weed. 
26 


BALLAD    OF    A    WOOING 

Then  sought  with  fasting  eyes  to  share 
The  heaven  in  her  own; 
And  as  she  passed,  upon  the  air 
There  fell  a  beggar's  moan. 


27 


EVENING  ABOVE  SARANAC 

Thou,  unhorizoned  as  eternity, 
Yet  of  time's  rounded  hour  thy  mirror  making, 
Thy  heart  the  sun,  thy  hand  the  gathering  sea. 
Yet  in  a  flower  thine  ample  lodging  taking; 
Thou  who  dost  vein  the  marble  and  the  leaf, 
Mak'st    thought    and    dream    shine    through    the 

jungle's  scarring. 
Till  from  a  scented  reed,  as  summer  brief, 
Man  breathes  the  forest  some  dim  star  is  wearing; 
These  are  thy  shadows;  here  I  strip  me  free 
Of  myths  and  days;  of  grieving  and  of  fearing; 
Tatters  of  fame,  and  love  that  bannered  me; 
Here  bare  me  as  the  moonlight,  only  hearing. 
As  in  thy  music,  universes  flow. 
And  even  as  music  to  thy  silence  go. 


a8 


JOB  31  :  1 

The  prophet^s  lips  are  wan  as  winds 

Whose  fury  has  been  spent  for  long; 

His  voice  is  faint  as  buried  sins, 

Too  faint  to  sound  above  a  song; 

His  hand,  raised  toward  the  starry  coasts, 

Thins  like  a  ghost's. 

The  maiden's  eyes  are  brown  as  hay. 
With  edges  burnt  to  tender  gold; 
Her  lips  are  coals  where  red  life  gay 
Laughs  at  the  stars  so  far,  so  old. 
And  Youth  who  has  no  world  to  lose 
Is  asked  to  choose. 


29 


ON    CLINGMAN    DOME 

The  balsam  buds  are  bluer 
From  leaning  on  the  sky; 

With  faces  nearer,  truer. 
The  stars  pass  cousinly. 

And  here  on  moss  like  heather. 
As  fragrant  and  as  deep. 

Safe  in  the  tender  weather, 
The  baby  angels  sleep. 

They  curl  and  tumble  near  me. 
Like  little  laughing  flames; 

They  nudge  and  do  not  fear  me. 
And  whisper  me  their  names. 

When  with  the  dawn  I  waken, 

I  hear  them  scurrying, 
And  stare  just  half  mistaken 

Where  leaves  shine  like  a  wing. 
30 


ON    CLINGMAN    DOME 

God's  truants,  but  forgiven; 

For  all  day  long  I  see 
A  silver  door  in  heaven 

Lean  open  coaxingly. 


31 


SONG 

The  bird  upon  the  ocean  waste 

With  straining  wing, 
Fails  not  for  in  her  breast 
She  bears  an  unbuilt  nest, 

A  bough  of  Spring. 

And  I  who  travel  toward  a  west 

That  has  no  sun, 
Faint  not  for  in  my  breast 
Thy  love  is  still  my  rest 

And  harbor  won. 


3^ 


AFTER    THE    GAME 

What  is  it,  Youth,  that  I  regret? 
Master  of  gifts,  and  leaving  none? 
Is  it  the  feet  that  lightly  set 
Their  print  where  mountain  brows  were  wet 
With  dewy  mirrors  of  the  moon  ? 
Bearing  a  soul  importunate 

To  smite  the  blue  sky  stone  that  is  the  gods*  shut 
gate? 

Or  mourn  I  most  that  braver  day. 

Imperious,  and  perilling 

My  hope  that  flung  an  upward  lay, 

From  trails  of  vision  challenging; 

And  valiant  went  the  gauntlet  way 

Past  flame  and  spear;  enraptured  driven 

To  set  drab  tents  of  man  fair  on  a  ridge  of  heaven? 

When  destiny,  struck  by  desire. 
Rang  back,  a  bell  of  magic  tone? 
When  love  let  no  man  walk  alone, 

33 


AFTER    THE    GAME 

And  every  heart  held  altar  fire, 

For  every  heart  was  yet  my  own 

That  grew,  as  flames  grow,  round  the  earth 

With  fast  exultant  beat  of  multitudinous  birth? 

Or  dearer  aches  my  loss  when  shy 

Ghost  hours  lead  to  an  idle  brook, 

Where  pale  with  song's  sped  shaft  I  lie. 

And  with  eternal  wonder  look 

Upon  a  moth-wing*s  brevity. 

Careless  against  the  infinite 

Heaven  of  a  leaf,  and  tremble  watching  it  ? 

Regret,  O  bee  that  comes  with  age 
From  faded  fields  to  sting  again 
To  pain*s  swift  red  the  heritage 
That  once  was  April  light  to  men. 
When  will  you  coldly  pass  me? — when 
Leave  me  to  twilight  and  the  dumb 
Strange  gaze  of  stars  that  care  not  who  may  go  or 
come? 


34 


RETURNING 

When  I  came  back  to  my  hills, 

The  sun  was  red  on  the  Great  Boar's  tusk. 

And  all  his  children  at  his  feet 

Were  bonnetted  in  dusk. 

Thin  little  fragrances  stole  out, 

Like  mist  I  could  not  see, 

But  Twilight  caught  them  round  her  throat 

Before  they  strangled  me. 


3S 


THE   NEW   FREEDOM 

Now  all  the  ways  are  open, 
And  we  may  ramble  in; 

Garden  and  ivory  temple, 
And  the  silken  doors  of  sin. 

No  wondering  by  a  door-step. 
No  latticed  mystery; 

No  gray  portcullis  guarding 
Dream's  gold  for  you  and  me. 

By  the  path  into  the  forest 
Where  four  blind  windows  wait. 

The  silence  has  no  secret, 
Down  is  the  briared  gate. 

How  bare  the  world  is  grown  now. 
Without  a  bar  or  pin ! 

No  little  doors  at  twilight 
We  may  not  enter  in. 

(To  W.  C.  B. 

On  the  publication  of 
"  Standards.") 

3^ 


THE    FOURTH    WATCH 

Where  shall  I  find  thee,  Joy, 

Who  loved  me  long  and  well? 

What  rout  doth  now  employ 

Thine  elfin  foot  and  bell? 

Shall  I  who  shared  thy  bower, 

From  all  thy  fields  have  not  one  flower? 

Spring  in  her  gown  of  leaves 
Is  naked  without  thee; 
Summer  with  all  her  sheaves 
Goes  starving  beggarly; 
Music  along  my  path 
In  all  her  notes  no  echo  hath. 

O  Life,  thy  palsy  lies 

In  me,  not  in  the  leaf. 

O  Time,  thy  passing  dries 

My  heart  and  not  the  sheaf. 

Music,  thou*lt  take  no  room 

In  hearts  that  tent  too  near  the  tomb. 

37 


THE    FOURTH    WATCH 

O  days  too  young  for  fear, 

O  quivering  bloom  of  sky, 

O  lover  at  mine  ear, 

Vanished  so  utterly ! 

Nay,  let  me  die,  and  then 

Joy,  thou  and  I  shall  forth  again. 


38 


DORIS 

The  ghost  of  Love  walks  by  her, 
To  church  and  to  the  play. 
With  pipe  and  chuckle  nigh  her. 
The  twilights  go  his  way. 

Admire  his  ease  in  carving; 
His  smile  by  candle  light. 
He  has  no  thought  of  starving, 
This  ghost  with  appetite. 

But  Love's  red  heart  goes  burning 
Where  the  wild  road  sings  no  more; 
And  there'll  be  no  returning; 
A  ghost  guards  well  his  door. 


39 


MY    LAWYER 

When  he  seeks  to  act 
He  stumbles  on  a  prison; 
Darkness  is  his  fact, 
Though  twenty  suns  be  risen. 

Halting, — action's  fever 
Caged  and  bound  and  bowed,- 
He  is  free  as  ever 
Sailed  Uranian  cloud. 


40 


'^HELEN'S   LIPS   ARE   DRIFTING 
DUST"* 

O  TELL  me,  Helen,  what  is  this 
Strange  dust  they  say  thy  beauty  is. 
When  hearts  who  do  not  hold  thee  must 
Indeed  be  hearts  of  dust? 


THE    PIERIAN    SPRING    TO-DAY 

The  Muse  has  left  the  trampled  brink 

For  a  deeper  wood 

And  solitude's  sweet  food; 

But  still  we  come  in  hordes, 

With  dippers,  cups  and  gourds, 

And  drink,  and  drink. 

*  Frederic  Laurence  Knowles 


41 


SALL'S    GAP 

From  trough  to  tip  the  gap  is  thick  with  laurel, 
And  black  raccoons  hide  in  blue  granite  dens; 
And  there*s  a  spot  where,  if  you  chance  to  draw 

well, 
You  may,  some  afternoon  with  pad  and  pens. 
Your  head  in  shade,  your  feet  in  sunny  sorrel. 
Fake  us  a  little  cove  in  Sicily, 
More  cool  to  dream  in,  though,  alas,  no  sea ! 

You  hear  the  bees  hum  skyward  in  the  poplars. 

Making  the  sweetest  honey  of  the  year. 

And  watch  a  cloud  that  like  a  tinted  mop  blurs 

A  neighbor  mountain's  bold  and  green  half-sphere 

With  freakish  push  and  start,  and  with  a  drop  leers 

In  at  the  cabin  doors,  or  dares  to  take 

A  roll  in  gardens,  like  a  playing  lake. 

And  there's  a  sound  so  near  it  seems  to  bubble 
Out  of  your  heart  and  tingle  through  your  skin. 

42 


SALL'S    GAP 

You  creep  around  the  lin  that  rises  double 
And  where  a  clump  of  forest  lilies  thin 
Themselves  to  three  that  rise  with  little  trouble 
To  a  graceful  score  of  feet  before  they  droop 
Their  spotted  heads,  you  catch  your  breath  and 
stoop; 

For  you  have  found  it;  found  the  mossy  parting 
Where  a  mountain  rillet  breaks  into  the  light; 
An  infant  on  its  seaward  way  outstarting. 
You  might  with  half  your  fingers  dam  its  flight, 
So  slenderly  begins  its  silver  darting, 
But  how  your  soul  would  chide  you  if  you  did. 
Keeping  such  bright  ambition  muddied,  hid ! 

And  it  is  yours;  here  from  this  gay  beginning 
This  crystal  rover  with  a  singing  tongue; 
This  rebel  from  the  hill's  heart  that  goes  winning 
Its  way  round  clutching  roots  with  growing  song 
That  will  not  give  the  veery  one  clear  inning; 
Yours  every  drop  of  blue  and  pearl  that  links  it, 
Down   to   the   broad,   brown   stream    that   coolly 
drinks  it. 

43 


SALL'S    GAP 

I  mean  'tis  mine  (for  I'll  no  longer  share  it 
With  you,  the  dear  man  mythical,  supposed 
To  read  my  verse,  but  can  with  ease  forbear  it); 
And  creeping  where  the  laurel  arms  are  closed 
Above  me,  I  go  with  the  brook's  song;  mar  it, 
No  doubt,  with  lilting  of  my  own  that  pushes 
Out  of  my  heart  and  with  the  water  rushes. 

What  can  I  tell  of  that  green  way  I  wandered 
Save  that  each  step  seemed  deeper  than  its  brother 
In  scented  woods  where  vines  and  bushes  squandered 
Berries  of  gold  and  sapphire  with  no  bother 
Except  to  tell  the  Wind  that  deftly  sundered 
Them  from  their  hoard.     If  fairies  saw  him,  sure 
They  saw  him  stagger  with  the  load  he  bore. 

And  when  I  reached  the  valley  my  heart  rumbled 
With  ache  of  joy  it  sought  to  grapple  fast. 
I  was  a  creature  with  wild  wings  that  fumbled 
For  their  lost  sky;  but  forced  to  think  at  last 
That  feet  were  good  enough,  I  used  them,  humbled. 
So  walking  met  a  man  quite  unexalted. 
Who  said  the  day  was  very  hot.     I  halted. 

44 


SALL'S    GAP 

"Sir,"  I  began,  "yon  brook  that  meets  the  river, 

Must  have  a  name  full  worthy  beauty^s  wear; 

A  name  that  like  itself  may  sing  forever 

In  hearts  that  hear  it.     Happy  be  our  care 

To  find  a  name  that  melody  can  never. 

No  never  can  forsake  for  anything 

More  sweetly  sounding."     He  stood  wondering; 

Then  spoke  too  loud,  I  thought.     "Sail's  branch? 

You'd  name  it? 
It 's  got  a  name  'at's  good  enough  for  me." 
"Sail,"  I  began,  but  could  not  quite  defame  it. 
My  stream  of  beauty,  with  such  mockery — 
"She  was  an  Indian  woman  with  a  claim  'at 
Lay  yonder  in  Sail's  Gap.     You  see  it,  lady? 
They're  both  named  after  her."     And  "good-day," 
said  he. 

He  went;  I  stayed.     What  was  the  use  of  mov- 
ing? 
The  world  from  bondage  could  not  be  delivered 
While  men  were  dead  to  Beauty;  gross,  unloving 
To  all  her  gifts.    My  body  burnt  and  quivered. 

45 


SALLYS    GAP 

YouVe  felt  it  too, — that  hot  despair  of  proving 
Man  worth  your  dream,  or  any  light  you  bring; 
Of  saving  Europe,  or  of  anything. 

Then  came  a  thought  that  through  my  gloom  shot 

brightly; 
A  thought  of  him,  the  wise  man  of  the  hill; 
Tall,  thin  and  old,  and  used  to  thinking  rightly; 
Whose  age  showed  fires  of  gentle  splendor  still. 
We*d    change    that    name!    My    step    again   was 

sprightly. 
As  off  I  hastened,  dropping  a  stern  mutter; 
We'd  change  that  name, — that  name  I  could  not 

utter ! 

He  knew  the  stars,  and  looked  like  one  who  knew 

them. 
He  knew  the  earth  too,  which  was  somewhat  more; 
He  knew  the  flowers,  and  as  his  children  grew  them; 
But  best  he  knew  the  mountains  and  their  lore. 
I  told  him  all.    He  plucked  two  pinks  and  threw  them 
Into  the  shadows  by  his  little  door; 
And  I  repeated  what  I'd  said  before. 

46 


SALL'S    GAP 

My  words  were  wrestlers  in  a  silence  spreading 
Until  I  felt  it  thicken  through  the  valley; 
And  still  no  sound,  no  answer  to  my  pleading; 
But  once  he  rose,  and  lengthened  magically 
Until  his  face  seemed  in  the  heavens  receding. 
"And  beauty — beauty — "  trailed  I,  overtasked. 
"And  you  would  die  for  it?"  he  sudden  asked. 

Then  told  the  story  while  I  listened  dumbly. 
"For  thirty  years  she  lived  there  near  the  sky. 
Men  sought  her  out,  for  she  was  gay  and  comely, 
But  none  could  win  her;  so  her  youth  went  by. 
And  when  her  tribe  was  driven  forth,  she  humbly 
Begged  leave  to  die  where  every  wild  thing  knew 

her. 
And  every  tree  and  green  thing  nodded  to  her. 

"It  was  not  granted.    She  must  travel  westward. 
She  plead  to  stones,  not  to  good  men  and  true, 
In  vain  she  sought  to  linger  there  sequestered. 
And    hid    and    starved    one    long    white   winter 

through. 
They  hunted  her,  and  deep  the  rancor  festered 

47 


SALL'S    GAP 

Till  troops  went  up.     If  she  would  not  forsake  her 
Wild   home   so   strangely   loved,   by   God,   they'd 
make  her!" 

His  voice  crept  through  the  shadows  like  a  ferret. 
"They  found  her  cabin  by  the  brooklet's  head; 
Her  spring  you  stumbled  on;  and  standing  near  it. 
The  tree  where  swung  her  body.     She  was  dead 
An  hour  before  they  came.    I  know  her  spirit 
Has  never  left  the  mountain, — never  shall. 
Her  name  was  Star-in-rain;  they  called  her  Sail.** 

His  eyes  were  shut.     I  slipped  away  not  speaking. 
She  starved.     And  I,  had  I  not  somewhat  yearned 
For  supper  coming  down?    Trespasser  peeking! 
Night  on  my  forehead  was  a  paw  that  burned. 
Across  the  gap  a  loosened  star  went  streaking. 
Sail's  gap?    Sail's  brook?    So  may  they  ever  be! 
I  set  this  down  for  meddlers  likest  me. 


48 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 

It  is  the  month  of  Spring's  full  star. 

Now  Redwing  makes  each  thicket  his. 

And  now  the  apple  blossom  is 
The  oriole's  honey  jar. 

The  road  flows  down  with  bend  and  whirl; 
(They  take  it  who  to  market  go;) 
Flows,  ripples,  flies  and  falls,  as  though      / 

The  mountain  wore  a  curl. 

Great  shadows  drop  and  darker  stare. 
Slow  nestling  down  like  giant  birds. 
And  silent  worlds  with  baflled  words 

Tap  at  the  door  of  air. 

One  brown  field  sleeps,  where  row  to  row 
We  laid  the  corn  in  furrow  house 
Before  the  lighted  dogwood  boughs 

Might  drop  their  stars  of  snow. 

A  bullbat  measures  downily 

His  wheeling  watch  above  the  wood, 
49 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 

And  a  Golden  owl  drifts  down  a  rood 
Beyond  her  chestnut  tree. 

Yon  grim,  unpassioned  peak  where  wades 
An  early  star  in  swelling  night, 
Can  reel  with  berries,  drunken  bright, 

And  laugh  with  lowland  raids. 

And  that  ravine  where  waters  sound. 
And  hemlock  trees  cloud  duskily. 
Is  neither  dread  nor  dark  to  me, 

But  sweet  as  maying  ground; 

For  once  a  belted  kingfisher 
Drew  Love  and  me  with  sapphire  flaunt 
Far  up  the  stream,  a  fairy's  jaunt, 

On  moss  as  soft  as  fur. 

II 

Above  the  dawn  I  leaned  in  fear 
To  see  him  ride  the  gray  mist  down. 
Safe  be  the  road  to  market-town, 

My  phantom  wagoner ! 

50 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 

I  watched  until  the  sun  set  high 
His  cedar  fires  on  Black-cap  Spur; 
Till  far  below  the  valley  blur 

Shone  like  a  tangled  sky; 

Then  to  the  full  day,  swift  and  meek, 

I  turned,  and  not  alone; 

For  safely,  softly,  half  unknown. 
Love  moved  at  hide-and-seek. 

Against  my  apple-basket  spread. 
The  book  he  loved  lay  as  I  pared; 
And  the  bardic  gold  again  we  shared 

As  goldenly  he  read. 

The  spoon  he  carved, — brown  wood  inlaid 
With  whitest  holly — ^leaf  and  wren — 
Whirred  in  my  bowl  and  sang  again 

The  song  the  carver  made. 

And  dipping  water  from  the  spring. 
The  stone-crop  set  in  mossy  cleft 
Held  up  its  stars, — ^his  woodland  theft. 

There  for  my  wondering. 

51 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 

At  last  a  rifling  hour  I  spent 

By  beds  in  flower,  with  ruthless  knife 
Where  blossom  clans  were  saucy  rife, 

And  as  I  silent  bent 

Thought  came  of  how  he  said  "Let  be 

The  valley  lilies  by  the  door; 

They  are  the  flowers  that  you  wore 
The  day  you  came  to  me." 

I  rose,  with  strange  remembering; 

Again  my  heart  was  high  and  lone; 

Then  stood  as  quiet  as  a  stone 
With  eyes  upon  my  ring. 

Let  Fortune  bless  as  Fortune  can, 
Fame  show  her  face  nor  hide  again, 
Still  is  supreme  the  white  hour  when 

The  woman  goes  to  man. 

And  blithe  the  way  of  thorn  and  furze. 

And  royal  then  a  rustic  part. 

If  he  but  bear  a  singing  heart. 
And  all  that  heart  is  hers. 
52 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 


III 

Now  every  flower  is  a  bride's 

In  Twilight's  hair.     Soon  she  will  sleep. 
And  fingers  of  the  moon  will  creep 

Along  her  paling  sides. 

And  up  and  up  the  flowing  road 
A  sound  will  greet  me  as  I  lean, 
Of  wheels  that  climb  and  climb  between 

The  dark  wings  of  the  wood; 

On  where  the  stream  strives  to  the  sea, 
A  laughing  god,  in  one  white  leap; 
And  blossoms  of  the  bloodroot  keep 

Their  candles  milkily. 

On  by  the  rhododendrons  where 

Gay  leaves  will  touch  a  cheek  for  me; 
On  till  the  height  has  wrestled  free 

And  night  lies  blue  and  bare. 


S3 


TWILIGHT    UNDER    BLACK    CAP 

IV 

O  Beauty,  most  you  love  the  Night ! 
And  now  you  hold  her  like  a  mate, 
While  all  her  moon-swept  mountains  wait 

As  altar  waits  the  rite. 

As  still  as  they,  for  Love  grown  late. 
Watching  the  road  that  like  a  curl 
Drops  flowing  down  with  bend  and  whirl. 

As  still  as  they  I  wait. 


54 


COMPACT 

The  poplar  trembles  on  the  hill 
Where  once  you  stood  and  said 
"When  I  am  down  for  good  or  ill, 
Make  here  my  mountain  bed. 

"When  from  my  green  to  your  white  door 
These  leaves  their  signal  pass, 
ril  quiet  lie  and  listen  for 
Your  foot  upon  the  grass." 

But  now  the  sea  has  made  your  grave, 
Far  from  your  hill  that  grieves; 
And  I  look  down  in  every  wave 
To  beckoning  poplar  leaves. 


5S 


LISTENERS 

Under  the  moon  my  ears 
Are  eager  for  strange  sound; 
A  distant,  dropping  song 
That  can  not  live 
Touching  my  common  ground. 

Upward  I  strain  to  hear 

The  moon's  own  melodies 

Above  the  meadow  choir 

And  singing  wood; 

More  strange,  more  sweet  than  these. 

But  songless  is  the  moon; 
Silent  and  barren  she 
Strains  palely  down  to  hear 
Sound  of  a  silvered  earth, 
Her  star  of  melody. 


56 


TO    A    YOUNG    GIRL 

Come  years  that  yet  are  kind 
With  wings  to  sail  for  me ! 

My  errands  in  the  sky 
Dome  dancingly, 

While  I,  ere  night,  unbind 

Sore  sandals,  lay  them  by ! 

For  me?     Fate  never  willed 
Such  store  to  those  who  lack. 
Who  go  to  gather  stars 

Do  not  come  back 
With  aprons  golden  filled 
For  doubters  at  the  bars. 

Fair  runner,  fleetly  go ! 
Upon  my  mornings  climb, 
Till  on  thy  head  are  dews 

Not  of  my  time; 
And  if  I  lose  thee  so, 
*Tis  riches  so  to  lose. 

57 


ITALY 

(February,  19 17) 

Thou  art  bleeding,  Italy  ! 
Rubies  burn  thy  belting  sea; 
Dripping  rubies  from  thy  heart; 
And  afar  we  pale  and  start 
As  we  first  had  felt  the  blow. 

Little  of  our  world  we  know, 
Little  of  her  ways  can  read; 
Lies  her  head  we  know  not  where; 
Or  her  shifting  hands  and  feet; 
But  her  heart  we  know  is  set 
(Like  a  song  within  a  deed, 
Like  a  jewel  all  may  wear,) 
Golden  warm  in  Italy; 
And  there  wounded  we  must  bleed. 

Bleed  with  thee,  O  Italy ! 
Hot  the  tears  that  blind  us;  we 
58 


ITALY 

See  no  sin  of  all  thy  sins. 
All  we  know  is  in  our  veins; 
Veins  that  burn  with  hurt  to  thee. 
All  we  know  is,  thou  dost  call — 
That  thou  in  the  darkness  strove, 
And  the  spear  is  in  thy  side. 
All  we  know  is  that  we  love. 
And  the  blows  that  on  thee  fall 
Fall  as  blows  upon  a  bride, 
Italy! 


59 


ASTRAY 

When  I  have  wandered  in  the  dusty  way 

That  farthest  leads  from  beauty *s  path  of  cool; 

My  spirit  frayed,  in  suit  of  seamy  day, 

And  wit  gone  bare  in  cheap  adventure's  school; 

A  wretched  captive  whom  the  gods  enjoin 

To  store  poor  nothing  with  laborious  breath; 

Bowing  my  back  with  burden  of  a  coin 

That  will  not  toll  me  through  the  gate  of  death, 

Nor  buy  one  dream  to  aid  mortality 

To  stay  the  ravage  of  eternal  dearth. 

And  with  one  star  array  my  memory 

To  shine  an  hour  above  the  faded  earth; 

I  sink  as  one  too  weak  for  wish  or  cry. 

Glad  of  oblivion's  shade  before  I  die. 


60 


FATHERLAND 

Come  fingered  as  a  friend,  O  Death; 
Unfrock  me,  flesh  and  bone. 
These  frills  of  smile  and  moan. 
These  laces,  traces  all  unpin; 
These  veins  that  net  me  in. 
This  ever  lassoing  breath. 
Remove  from  me, 
If  here  is  aught  to  free. 

O  Earth,  I  shall  be  fleet 

Upon  thy  hills;  thy  child  at  last. 

Waiting  no  feet; 

Thy  roads  all  mine,  and  no  white  gate 

Inevitably  fast. 

So  free,  so  blest. 

To  love  thee  till  winds  ultimate 

Have  left  thee,  too,  undrest ! 

To  enter  where  thy  banquets  are 
When  storms  are  called  to  feast; 
And  find  thy  hidden  pantry  stair 
When  Spring  with  thee  would  guest; 
6i 


FATHERLAND 

Into  thine  attic  windows  step 
From  humbled  Himalays; 
And  round  thy  starry  cornice  creep, 
Waylaying  deities. 

And  this,  my  Earth,  I  know; 
Though  for  my  hand 
Space  hold  out  spheres  like  roses,  and 
Like  country  lanes  their  orbits  blow. 
If  thou  be  green,  and  blossom  still. 
Then  I  must  downward  go; 
Leave  stars  to  keep 
House  as  they  will; 
The  winds  to  walk,  or  turn  and  sleep; 
Seas  to  spare  or  kill. 
Behind  my  back  shall  sunsets  burn 
Bereft  of  my  concern; 
Each  wonder  passed 
Shall  feed  my  haste. 
Till  I  have  paused  as  now. 
Beneath  a  bending  orchard  bough, — 
An  April  apple  bough. 
Where  Southern  waters  creep. 
62 


DEFIANCE 

Or  dear  or  great  they  fall  as  grass; 
They  go,  and  never  come; 
And  still  we  seek  out  ways  to  pass 
Beyond  the  tether  of  the  breath; 
Still  hope  runs  on  from  tomb  to  tomb 
Denying  death. 

Set  in  us.  Death,  the  fear  of  fears, — 
Some  day  there^ll  be  no  Spring; 
Tramp  earth  till  every  hill  be  bare. 
The  hosts  of  life  on  mocking  spheres 
Beyond  the  hills  of  Jupiter 
Will  sigh  and  sing. 

You  conqueror?    Then  a  greater  lot 
Doth  he,  the  conquered,  own; 
He  looks  into  your  eyes  of  stone, 
He  hears  you  pass,  an  iron  wing, 
But  you,  dark  force,  you  know  him  not. 
Nor  anything. 

63 


DEFIANCE 

What  is  the  wind-flower's  nod  to  you 
Whose  Spring  brings  back  no  ghost? 
What  is  the  harebell's  shaken  blue. 
Rocking  again  within  my  heart? 
What  are  the  tulip  sails  high-tost 
Where  suns  depart? 

You  nothing  see  when  Youth,  the  seer, 

Dies  proud  against  a  wall; 

Blind  yet  when  eyes  of  friends  long  true 

Meet  in  your  shadow;  even  there 

Fill  with  a  light  undoing  all 

That  you  can  do. 

A  sage  speaks  clear  as  bells  that  make 
A  gold  lake  of  the  air; 
On  heart  and  lips  that  dared,  you  set 
The  heavy  earth;  but  waiting  where 
A  world's  two  ways  their  parting  take. 
Men  listen  yet. 

A  poet  walks;  you  haste  to  cut 
The  breath  of  flame  and  dew, 
64 


DEFIANCE 

And  doors  of  vision  fumble  shut; 
But  words  of  his,  as  bright  as  tears, 
Have  lit  like  birds  on  all  the  years 
Time  holds  from  you. 

Who  knows  how  lone  the  sea  must  flow. 

Is  lonelier  than  the  sea; 

A  greater  than  the  hills  is  he 

Who  feels  them  pass  from  sand  to  sand; 

And  who  knows  Death,  to  Death  may  go 

With  almoner's  hand. 

Or  dear  or  great  they  fall  as  grass; 
They  go,  and  never  come; 
But  still  we  seek  out  ways  to  pass 
Beyond  the  tether  of  the  breath, 
And  hope  runs  on  from  tomb  to  tomb 
Denying  death. 


6s 


II 


LAUGHTER 

The  house  of  grief  had  no  windows. 
The  widow's  tears  fell  like  bitter  acorns. 
And  the  child  kept  touching  her  strange  cheek. 
My  dead  friend's  face  was  a  cold  lamp 
That  Pain  had  lit  and  deserted. 

I  took  the  high  ridge  homeward. 
But  I  did  not  get  above  the  trees. 
They  crowded  me  like  too  many  gods. 
What  had  I  to  do  in  their  world? 

Had  my  friend  found  the  right  planet? 
Or  made  another  mistake? 
If  I  had  known  which  was  mine, 
I  should  have  made  haste  to  go. 

Below  me  in  the  dark  lay  the  roof  of  a  cottage. 
And  through  two  little  holes  I  could  see  firelight 
dancing. 

69 


LAUGHTER 

It  was  queer  to  look  on  hearthfire  through  a  roof. 

Three  glass  balls  met  softly  in  the  air. 

It  was  my  laughter. 

The  trees  made  room  for  me; 

The  jostling  gods  were  gone; 

Earth  was  warm;  I  was  in  my  own  place. 


70 


ON    THE    MOUNTAIN 

She  passed  like  a  running  flame. 

He  did  not  see  her,  but  the  leaves  she  touched 

Were  edged  with  proud  fire, 

And  the  wind  blew  haughtily  all  day 

Above  her  track. 

A  deer  by  a  spring  looked  at  him  and  said 

Do  you  think  you  can  overtake  one 

Who  is  fleeter  than  I  ? 

And  drank  and  nibbled  as  if  Autumn  had  not  come 

With  Winter  under  her  apron. 

The  deer  knew  that  high  up 

All  the  leaves  were  brown, 

And  the  wind  whipped  them  sullenly, 

And  a  trail  of  white  ashes  lay  in  the  road; 

But  he  who  was  only  a  man,  ran  on. 


71 


I    TAKE    A    WALK 

I  SEE  that  the  mountain  is  breathing  to-day. 

A  white  mist  rolls  upon  it; 

And  suddenly  my  heart  is  the  mountain. 

My  green  trees,  like  children, 

Snatch  at  the  climbing  mist. 

It  curls  with  laughter  and  moves  on. 

I  must  wait  until  it  is  weary 

And  creeps  into  a  hollow  of  the  mountain's  arm. 

Before  my  heart  can  be  only  a  heart  again. 

I  come  to  a  clear  spring  in  the  woods. 
And  stoop  to  see  what  has  made  the  small  track 
In  the  soft  earth. 
A  raccoon  has  been  drinking  here. 
Leaving  a  print  like  a  baby's  foot; 
Five  tiny  drops  for  toes, 
And  a  little  heel  watching  them. 
My  heart  goes  slipping  through  the  bushes 
To  a  home  in  the  laurel,  and  I  wait 

72 


I    TAKE    A    WALK 

Till  the  sun  has  gone  through  the  highest  pine-top 
Before  I  can  quite  get  it  back. 

Cliffs  thrust  themselves  up, 

Dripping  with  ferns; 

The  rocks  elbowing  through 

Like  gods  that  could  not  hide  themselves 

When  the  earth  got  too  old  for  them. 

And  I  must  stand  here  till  my  heart 

Has  felt  the  ice  of  a  million  winters 

And  the  thaw  of  a  million  summers, 

And  birds  and  beasts  that  men  have  never  seen 

Come  out  of  the  fissures,  and  look  down  from  the 

ledges, 
Begging  for  parley  with  a  world 
That  never  relents  or  gives  quarter 
At  the  end  of  a  day. 

I  come  out  of  the  woods  to  the  sea; 

And  my  heart  is  away,  knowing  no  walls; 

Itself  the  unanswered  sea 

That  inquires  of  all  shores; 

Pleading  with  the  temperate,  silent  sands; 

73 


I    TAKE    A    WALK 

Tearing  at  the  dumb,  blue  North, 

Tooth  against  its  tooth  in  icy  duel; 

Entreating  down  the  long  triangular  South; 

A  suppliant  creeper. 

Making  the  fragrant  ambit 

Of  mid-world  islands. 

Floating  her  crinkled  moons 

A  gift  before  her; 

Overrunning  the  cup  of  the  Gulf; 

Hurling  an  upright  tide. 

And  grinding  out  no  answer 

From  a  city  tossed  to  driftwood. 

Beseeching  or  furious. 

Day  and  night  the  questioner. 

And  I  would  die  for  want  of  sleep 

If  I  did  not  stumble  away. 

And  let  my  heart  creep  after  me. 

Once  more  small  and  safe. 

I  lie  down  on  the  ground; 
Rich,  brown  soil  is  my  pillow; 
And  a  violet  near  my  eyes  is  taller  than  Fuji. 
74 


I    TAKE    A    WALK 

I  hide  under  the  blue  mountain  and  rest: 
But  I  had  come  out  to  walk. 

Now  this  is  my  prayer,  O  my  saints ! 
Stop  my  heart  from  all  this, 
So  that  I  can  get  somewhere. 


75 


THE    GOD 

All  day  we  have  climbed 
The  high  wold  of  the  winds, 
My  lover  and  I. 

We  have  raced  on  the  flinty  ledges. 
Our  shoulders  like  twin  prows 
Cutting  the  mist; 
On  the  upward  rocks 
Our  steps  rang  together; 
Together  our  thoughts 
Pushed  at  the  yielding  horizon; 
And  the  hollows  that  gave  us  rest 
Caught  and  tossed  as  one  breath 
Our  laughter. 

But  I  fear  the  night, 

When  sleep,  the  unmasker. 

May  reveal  him  a  god. 

He  will  lie  unapproachably  still. 

Returned  to  himself, 

76 


THE    GOD 

Listening  above  my  earth. 

Whispers  will  drop  from  the  stairs  of  the  night, 

Swimming  the  dusk  leagues 

To  the  shore  of  his  dreaming, 

But  not  for  me,  humble  in  the  moonlight. 

Making  a  hyacinth  wreath 

For  the  brow  of  my  god. 

Night,  and  he  sleeps. 

The  day,  like  a  tinted  mantle. 

Has  slipped  from  the  smooth,  white  body; 

The  day  of  valor  and  vision, 

When  my  veins  were  a  tide  for  his  thirst. 

When  his  heart  was  a  lake  at  my  lips. 

Heedlessly  his  cheek 
Brushes  oblivion; 
His  features  lie  tender  as  rest; 
As  a  flower  from  its  conscious  stem  fallen. 
Unaware  of  wild  winds. 
The  lips  curve  free  as  a  child's; 
No  whispers  from  the  sky 
77 


THE    GOD 

Nest  and  knock  at  the  pale  round  of  his  ear; 

Only  in  me  is  there  stir, 

A  quiver  like  the  faint  unrest 

When  a  world  is  begun. 

I  lift  my  hand  to  the  wide  night, 

Lest  the  dark  fall  upon  him; 

With  my  brooding  shoulders,  stronger  than  hills, 

I  bend  back  the  winds; 

I,  patient  with  the  babble  of  gods; 

Unconcerned  with  the  gossip  on  the  stairs  of  the 

night; 
Making  a  cradle  of  the  vast,  dusk  leagues; 
And  my  careless  foot 
Is  on  the  hyacinth  wreath. 
As  my  kisses  shatter  the  light  on  his  hair, 
The  hair  of  my  little  child. 


78 


WE    CREATORS 

Let  us  go  on  with  experiments; 
Let  us  dare  and  dream  and  do; 
Some  day  we  may  make  a  world 
With  a  buttercup  in  it, 
Or  a  swallow's  wing. 


ATTENTION 

And  if  a  daisy  look  at  me, 

The  wheeling  world 

Seems  then  to  stand 

Contentedly 

At  journey's  end. 


79 


TWILIGHT 

The  mountains  lie  in  curves  so  tender 
I  want  to  lay  my  arm  about  them 
As  God  does. 


WHEN    LYING    ON    A    BANK    OF 
TWIN-FLOWERS 

The  pain  of  my  crude  body 
Has  become  fragrance, 
And  fragrance,  finer  than  longing. 
Has  become  my  pain. 


80 


EVVIE'S    MOTHER  i 

She  took  the  last  egg  out  of  the  basket. 

"I'll  warm  a  little  'fore  I  go,"  she  said; 

And  pretending  not  to  know 

That  Spring  had  tip-toed  through  my  window 

And  put  out  my  fire, 

She  drew  her  chair  hearthward. 

I  glanced  at  the  hovering  shoulders 
That  made  my  kitchen  seem   too  big  and   com- 
fortable, 
And  scoured  a  milk-jar  the  second  time. 
She  watched  me  through  her  eyelids. 
And  sure  of  my  sheltering  indifference. 
Began: 

"Evvie  an*  Judd  got  off  this  mornin*. 
Judd  hauled  their  thimbleful  o*  stuff 
Round  by  the  wagon  road  yisterday, 

8i 


EVVIE'S    MOTHER 

An*  they  set  ofF  afoot  over  the  mountain. 

Evvie  was  limpin*,  'count  o'  that  ketch  in  her  back, 

But  Judd  was  totin'  all  the  bundles. 

He  thinks  he's  goin'  to  be  good  to  her; 

ril  'low  him  that. 

"I  reckon  it  was  easy  walkin'  to  her  own 
home, 
Even  a  limpin*. 

IVe  kept  'em  eight  months  now. 
An'  Evvie  wanted  to  get  moved  and  shaped  up 
'Fore  the  baby  come. 

"Ef  she  wasn't  so  little.  .  .  . 
Girls  used  to  marry  at  fifteen  an'  hold  out  at  it. 
But  I  don't  b'lieve  they's  as  little  as  Evvie. 

"She  says  she'll  be  satisfied,  'cause  it's  Judd. 
But  she  don't  like  that  lonesome  creek 
Down  there  in  the  fork  o'  the  mountains. 
It's  enough  to  make  an  owl  hoot  in  daylight. 
That  place  is; 

An'  Evvie  '11  be  by  herself  a  lot. 

82 


EVVIE'S    MOTHER 

"The  shack*s  more'n  a  mile  from  anybody. 
It's  on  nor  thy  land  too,  so  laurelly 
It*d  tangle  a  wild  hog. 
Judd*s  folks  live  the  nighest, 
But  theyVe  never  took  to  Evvie. 

"*Tain*t  fair  to  call  her  spiled, 

But  she's  used  to  bein*  made  up  to; 

Hearin*  all  her  life  how  purty  she  was, 

An'  her  father  bein'  sort  o*  foolish  about  her. 

When  she  went  to  school  an*  had  that  wheezin'  in 

her  chest, 
He  used  to  meet  her,  pushed  as  never  was, 
An'  tote  her  halfway  home  pick-a-back. 

"When  Judd  ast  for  her  I  said 

He  was  big  and  strong,  he'd  take  keer  of  her; 

An'  her  daddy  said  yes,  he  was  big  as  a  house 

An*  strong  as  an  ox. 

An*  that*s  what  he  was  afraid  of. 

"Evvie  can  sew  an*  cook, 

An*  keep  the  house  redd  up  nice, 

83 


EVVIE'S    MOTHER 

But  I  got  to  say  it  she  ain't  much  in  a  crop. 

She'll  drag  the  hoe  ever'  time. 

An'  that's  why  Judd's  folks  don't  like  her. 

His  mammy  said  Evvie'd  learn  something 

Ef  she  tried  settin'  down  'round  her 

When  the  weeds  was  jumpin'  in  the  corn. 

*Purty  won't  fill  the  meal-sack,' 

That's  what  she  told  Judd,  an'  Evvie  heard  her. 

"Judd  promised  he  wouldn't  push  her 

Faster  'n  she  could  go; 

Leastways  not  now;  but  he's  got  a  hard  eye, 

Blacker  'n  dark  o'  the  moon. 

An'  I've  seen  him  look.  .  .  . 

"Limpin'  now,  an'  got  two  months  more. 
But  Judd  was  totin'  the  bundles. 
Maybe  it'll  work  out." 


84 


PACE    TUA 

I  WAKE,  and  look  about  me. 

I  thought  I  had  cleared  everything  out  of  my  room, 

So  that  my  mind,  catching  on  nothing, 

Would  go  sailing  in  a  clear  sky 

For  the  eaves  over  the  horizon. 

But  there  is  that  Corot  photograph. 
Left  me  by  a  rambling,  starving  artist; 
Starving  for  Paris, — O  God, 
Have  I  got  to  go  to  Paris  this  morning? 

And  that  bowl,  like  the  bark  of  a  tree. 

With  a  lizard  climbing  on  it, — 

A  young  Indian  of  Yellow  Hill 

Made  it  and  sold  it  for  fifty  cents. 

He  bought  tobacco,  and  is  lying  under  a  tree 

Making  smoke-rings  and  dreaming 

Of  more  bowls  and  tobacco. 

God  bless  him,  I  could  think  of  him  all  day ! 

85 


PACE    TUA 

That  box, — yes,  three  chocolates  left. 

Where  are  the  girls  that  dipped  them. 

Singing  and  swearing  and  wondering  about  their 

dates  ? 
Shoo  away,  girls,  before  I  find  out  that  one  of  you 
Is  infected  with  dreams  and  ambition; 
The  kind  that  heave  the  world, 
Down  under  mud  and  stones; 
And  get  people  out  of  bed. 
As  far  as  the  bath-tub  anyhow. 

That  rug, — the  old  woman  in  the  next  cove 
Dyed  it  with  pecoon  root  and  dogwood  bark. 
Granny  Whitt,  who  sheep-hunted  all  over  these 

hills 
Till  she  was  eighty-two. 
And   sold  wool   to   the  women   with   looms   and 

wheels. 
I  saw  her  once  on  a  rock  under  a  pine. 
It  was  foggy  morning  before  sun-up. 
And  she  looked  like  a  slim,  grey  feather 
Standing  upright. 

86 


PACE    TUA 

She  had  a  daughter  named  Zinnia; 

Big,  like  her  forefathers,  and  lovely  and  silent. 

Made  you  think  of  Autumn,  and  warm  rain. 

She  married  a  half-breed  Cherokee,  straight  and 

strong. 
He  was  jealous  of  a  white  man; 
Hid  in  the  laurel,  and  shot  him; 
Cut  out  his  eyes  and  brought  them  to  Zinnia. 
She  lived  two  weeks,  and  left  twins  an  hour  old. 
They  hung  him,  under  a  bridge. 
He  had  a  felon  on  his  finger; 
They  tore  it  open  dragging  him  to  the  bridge. 
The  noose  didn't  work  well. 
They  hung  him  around  dark,  and  at  three  o'clock 

in  the  morning 
Two  tramps  crossed  the  bridge  and  ran. 
Because  they  heard  groans. 
If  you  ever  had  a  felon — 

The  twins  are  big  enough  now 

To  climb  the  long  hill  from  Granny  Whitt's 

And  play  in  my  yard. 

87 


PACE    TUA 

One  day — ^Narrative,  narrative ! 
Shall  I  slop  into  your  easy  path. 
And  trickle  on? 

You  may  drain  any  river 
And  find  three  garnets. 

There's  a  garnet  in  this  poem. 
If  you  go  after  it  with  a  dredge. 


88 


SNOW    IN   THE    COTTON    FIELD 

The  cotton  stalks  rattle 
Their  dead  leaves  jauntily; 
But  looks  of  dismay- 
Are  cast  furtively  downward 
At  a  thick,  white  world 
That  needs  no  more  of  their  labor. 


89 


THE    POEM 

Li  T*ai  Po  was  making  a  poem  about  death, 
When  death  moved  through  his  life  like  a  glacier 
And  ground  away  all  his  pretty  words. 
And  ever  after  when  a  friend  would  come  to  him 

saying, 
"I  will  read  you  my  poem  about  death," 
Li  T*ai  Po  would  answer, 
"I  can  not  hear  you,  friend;  the  North  wind  is  too 

loud." 


90 


AUGUST    EVENING 

The  shadows  of  the  mountains  stretch  cool  on  the 

valley, 
Making  a  shore  for  the  scented  waves 
From  the  fallen  reefs  of  hay. 

A  hundred  white  moths  drift  homeless 
Above  the  cropped  grass. 
Silent  as  patience  and  wonder; 
But  the  tiny,  hopping  meadow-moles  barb  the  air, 
Making  a  new  Saga  of  the  scythe  that  unroofed 
them. 

If  I  walk  alone  round  the  curve  of  the  lake, 
With  a  step  like  lapping  water. 
Till  I  pass  the  house  of  the  beavers. 
And  sit  carved  in  twilight. 
Shall  I  hear  a  blue  crane  cry? 


91 


ADVICE 

The  moss  on  your  apple  trees 

Will  kill  the  struggling  fruit, 

Writes  my  friend;  and  sends  me  a  scaling  knife. 

But  I  think  that  when  I  am  a  spirit, 

Who  has  forgotten  how  to  eat, 

And  come  back  to  my  trees. 

The  struggling  green  moss 

Will  be  lovelier  than  the  fruit; 

And  I  lay  the  knife  away. 

Safely,  where  it  will  never  hack  and  wound 

The  creeping  feet  of  Beauty. 


92 


ON    CERTAIN    STATE    ADVISERS 
AND    THEIR    PUBLIC 

They  are  like  my  kind  Serena, 

Who  tiptoes  to  my  bed 

And  asks  in  tones  with  the  lid  cautiously  on 

If  she  may  do  this  or  that. 

She  thinks  that  if  she  whispers 

She  can  get  her  orders  without  awaking  me. 


93 


THE    ARCTIC    GIRL 

The  stranger  that  came  from  where  the  blue  star 

shines 
Says  that  in  his  land  the  earth  is  green. 
There  are  tall  sprouts  that  go  up  to  the  sky 
And  birds  build  their  huts  in  them 
And  live  there  with  their  families; 
But  the  sprouts  on  the  ground  are  short  and  thick, 
And  kind  to  the  feet. 
It  must  be  a  strange  world,  all  green. 
With  no  white  snow  and  blue  ice. 
I  should  like  to  look  at  it  once, 
A  little  at  a  time,  with  my  eyes  nearly  shut. 
I  will  go  some  night  the  way  the  stranger  went, 
Down  toward  the  blue  star. 
I  may  see  a  bird  in  the  high  green. 
Talking  to  his  children. 
I    will   walk    very    carefully    on    the   little    thick 

sprouts; 
Then  I  shall  come  back  to  the  smooth  safe  ice 
And  the  good  white  snow. 

94 


APOLOGY 

I  WOULD  not  write  a  book, 

But  I  have  a  friend  over  the  sea 

Whom  I  have  never  seen. 

And  who  does  not  know  that  he  is  my  friend. 

He  lives  in  a  house  of  baked  yellow  clay. 

So  old  now  that  it  is  brown  as  the  leaves 

The  wind  drops  upon  it. 

When  he  climbs  the  hill  behind  his  cottage, 

And  sits  with  his  back  to  a  bare  oak 

With  twisted,  futile  branches. 

And  looks  out  on  the  ocean 

That  makes  far,  drowned  birds  of  his  dreams, 

I  want  him  to  hold  my  book,  and  with  returning 

eyes 
Confess  to  the  speedwell  and  robins 
That  they  have  a  new  comrade. 


95 


WHO  SHALL  MEASURE? 

From  my  highest  hill 

I  watched  for  An  tares. 

Brief  would  be  his  glimmer 

Where  the  long  line  of  mountains 

Duped  the  horizon 

With  vague,  rambling  mist. 

And  I  shall  never  know 
If  that  was  Antares* 
Eye  on  the  earth-line. 
Or  the  gleam  of  a  lantern 
The  wild  poet  carried; 
For  God  who  saw  both 
Only  laughs  when  I  ask  him. 


96 


KARTAJAYA 

Once  in  Golden  Chersonese, 

The  Yellow  Land, 

Says  the  old  Tamil  poem. 

Lived  Kartajaya  making  beauty's  shoes. 

And  one  day  he  cried  to  Vishnu, 

"  I  am  weary,  O  Life-weaver ! 

Weary  of  princesses  with  unclad  feet 

That  never  have  enough  of  pearls  and  lambskin; 

Of  beaded    silk,   and   velvet    that    creeps    in    the 

night. 
Take  a  year  from  my  days,  O  Life-weaver, 
And  set  me  free  for  the  work  my  soul  loves." 
So  Vishnu  cut  a  year  from  his  days 
And  gave  him  the  freedom  of  earth. 
For  ten  years  he  went  hither  and  thither, 
Following  his  soul; 
But  when  the  singer  from  far  Tamil 
Came  to  Golden  Chersonese, 
He  found  Kartajaya  in  his  old  place 
Making  beauty's  shoes. 


97 


TOLSTOI 

Put  me  a  thought  in  the  butterfly,  will  you  ? 
Let  it  garnish  a  thought. 
Or  take  the  carcass  away. 
I  am  more  than  eyes. 


98 


BURNING    BRIDGES 

Come,  friend,  my  soul; 

We  are  going  to  burn  our  bridges. 

Yes,  I've  been  watching  you, 

And  this  is  the  moment  of  courage. 

Of  madness,  of  faith. 

We  will  burn  them  all; 

The  shining  bridges,  built  so  carefully. 

Quarried  from  cliffs  of  pearl  in  the  dawn. 

Where  you  have  passed  and  lain  untouched 

By  the  burning  air  of  battle 

And  the  sooty  drip  of  sweat; 

The  iron  bridges,  that  will  bear  all  your  trundling 

baggage; 
Stuff  from  your  grandfather's  attic; 
Cradles,  and  harps,  and  old  books; 
Chests  full  of  skulls. 
That  are  heavy  only  because  they  are  so  many; 

99 


BURNING    BRIDGES 

The  old  wooden   bridges,    that   creak   and  nearly 

drop  youj 
Kept  for  sudden  usage, 
Unconfessed  in  the  shadows 
Of  vines  and  stooping  branches; 
The  torch  to  them  all ! 
Burn  them  quickly  in  your  moment  of  fire. 

There  are  dens  of  twilight  back  there; 

There  you  are  safe; 

Safe  as  a  fox  home  from  the  hounds; 

And  under  cover  you  can  get  you  little  fox  eyes, 

And  claws  that  tingle  for  a  goose 

Fat  with  corn. 

But  you  will  go  there  no  more; 

The  bridges  are  burning. 

What  is  that  little  white  thing 

Going  up  like  a  leaf  in  the  smoke? 

Stay !    Don*t  leap  back ! 

Don't  dance  like  a  dervish,  trying  to  reach  it. 

You  thought  you  brought  it  with  you? 

Well,  you  didn't,  and  it's  gone. 

100 


BURNING    BHIIJGES: 

Face  about  now ! 

Courage  for  strange  clouds; 

Clouds  with  boiling  green  funnels 

Ploughing  toward  us; 

For  terrors  like  drunken  mountains 

Falling  upon  us; 

For  conjurations  making  the  ground  tremble. 

Face  about ! 

What  is  this,  friend,  my  soul? 

A  clean  rain  has  swept  the  way  for  us; 

The  clouds  drift  slowly,  like  puzzled  sheep; 

Our  feet  fall  young  on  the  garnished  path; 

The  air  is  scented; 

We  are  nearing  the  manna  fields. 

Behind  us  are  no  chasms,  no  charred  wrecks. 

But  a  far  plain,  shimmering  green  and  tender. 

Don't  pause  to  wonder;  come  on; 

Miracles  always  happen,  common  as  grass. 

When  bridges  are  burnt. 


lOI 


Ill 


IN    THE  BLACK    COUNTRY 

(Staffordshire,  England) 

Hell  hath  its  uses;  here  each  mortar  mouth 

Casts  far  as  life  some  treasure  dear  to  need; 
Welcome  to  men  as  ships  the  fruity  South 

Sends    to   blown   Arctic   shores.     These   valleys 
bleed 
That  others  may  be  fair.     In  greener  shires, 

Where  glisten  cots  and  byres. 
Manors  and  castles,  or  where  farther  bide 

Young  Adam  and  his  bride. 
What  aching  wants  are  banished  by  these  despot 
fires! 

Let  Ceres  bring  sweet  incense  and  blow  white 
Yon   furnace   breath;   for   there   flames  leap   to 
mould 
Her    spears    and    harrows,    chains    and    mattocks 
bright; 
There  forge  the  gleaming  blades  that  cut  the  gold 
105 


IN    THE    BLACK    COUNTRY 

Of  wide  Australia's  fields  when  flow  and  wane 

Her  harvest  tides  of  grain; 
And  shape  for  far,  brown  hands  the  hoe  and  spade 

To  ruff  some  island  glade, 
Or,  chance  be,  turn  the  mellow  sod  in  Argentine. 

Look  to  our  left;  bolts,  rivets,  girders,  beams, 

That  make  our  towers  safe  near  wavering  stars; 
Rods,    pillars,    shafts,    that    bridge    unchallenged 
streams. 
Or  bear  a  mountain's  weight;  unflinching  bars 
That  Time  alone  can  bend;  and  fairy  wire 

For  violin  and  lyre, 
That  shall  from  Music's  heart  stir  her  to  break 

Dream's  silence  and  remake 
That  silence  deeper:  all  are  born  of  that  white  fire. 

And  there !    Slack  would  the  world  go  but  for  pins, 

Needles  and  button.     When  we  lost  our  fur, 
Fishbone  and  threaded  thorn  helped  us  our  sins 

To  hide  again,  and  modesty  relure 
To  walk  with  us.     Now  showering  from  here 
To  every  port  o'  the  sphere, 
io6 


IN    THE    BLACK    COUNTRY 

Go,  tidying  the  world,  slim  bits  of  pointed  sun, 

And  on  the  daintiest  one 
What  maid  at  bridal  thrift  shall  drop  a  happy  tear  ? 

But  see  where  cavern  windows  ghostly  glow, 

As  a  dead  dragon's  eyes  yet  open  burn. 
Stripped  figures  like  strange  beasts  weave  to  and 
fro! 
And  suddenly  we  know  how  beasts  must  yearn 
Who  have  no  way  out  but  to  pass 

Through  fire  to  the  green  grass. 
These  strong,  who  for  the  weak  make  beauty  sure. 

How  long  will  they  endure 
An  earth  of  ashes  and  a  sky  of  brass  ? 


107 


HOME 

He  came,  her  hero  crowned. 
Neat  as  a  lily  trim. 
She  put  slim  arms  around 
The  hell  of  him. 

The  horror  with  no  name 
He  looked  on  night  and  day. 
Though  it  met  her  like  a  flame. 
Her  love  would  slay. 

Her  soft  hands,  they  should  cling; 
Her  kisses,  they  should  wean 
Him  from  the  strange,  dark  Thing 
That  he  had  seen. 

And  when  his  days  grew  mild. 
And  he  said  "You  let  me  go; 
But  I  forgive  you,  child; 
You  did  not  know;" 
io8 


HOME 

She  yet  knew  not  her  loss. 
His  soul  its  shore  would  keep, 
And  in  no  world  would  cross 
To  hers  asleep. 


109 


EN    ROUTE 

Men  of  Earth,  how  goes  our  race? 
Runners  on  a  whirling  ball. 
While  the  hounds  of  Nature  chase; 
Tusk  and  fang  behind  us  all? 
Reaching  for  the  ravelled  wind. 
And  the  pearls  behind  the  rain, 
While  oblivion's  pickets  bind 
Mouth  and  foot  of  all  our  slain. 

Not  so  fast  we  flee  in  time 
But  diseases  gnaw  their  fill; 
Yet  do  adders  of  the  slime 
Slit  the  tendon  vulnerable. 
Shouting  dies  on  frozen  breath; 
Singing  fails  with  parching  blood; 
And  the  patient  watcher.  Death, 
Ever  waits  his  whiter  food. 

Safety's  arm  must  sweep  the  skies; 
Stars  her  belting  filigree. 
Shall  our  blood-made  boundaries 
no 


EN    ROUTE 

Mark  her  throat  and  shut  her  eye. 
Till  upon  our  blackened  hearth 
Sets  the  forest  foot,  and  lost 
Is  the  wild,  escaping  earth 
To  man's  shrunken,  futile  ghost? 

Tongues  of  wisdom,  are  they  dumb  ? 
Cap  and  bells,  not  cap  and  gown? 
That  two  fingers  give  a  crumb 
While  our  guns  beat  cities  down? 
Science  ours,  we  turn  her  blades 
Against  our  hearts,  though  Time  yet  lays 
For  us  his  cosmic  ambuscades. 
And  yet  shall  launch  his  glacial  days. 

Other  hope  than  this  weVe  none; 
Strength  of  all  men's  hands  in  two; 
Strength  of  all  men's  hearts  in  one. 
Clear  of  poison's  ancient  brew; 
Brew  of  lies  more  ghastly  than 
Ever  hag  in  midnight  wood 
Mixed  for  Superstition  wan, 
Giving  her  new,  viler  blood. 
Ill 


EN    ROUTE 

Oh,  what  keys  are  in  our  power ! 
World  in  world  no  more  may  hide; 
We  may  bring  the  giants*  hour; 
Hand  and  brain  no  goal  denied. 
Browsing  then  in  heaven's  air; 
Stars  our  food  and  milky  teat; 
And  these  salt  fields  of  despair 
Gemmed  and  green,  our  laurelled  seat. 

Though  a  frozen  sun  awaits, 
Dropsied  with  a  glut  of  spheres. 
When  the  swallowed  earth  completes 
Cycle  of  her  whirling  years. 
We'll  have  saved  eternity 
This  greater  thing, — a  mind  that  won 
Its  way  to  destiny's  last  play 
And  lost  the  game  to  God  alone. 


112 


THE    COMING 

0  FAIR,  free  world !    For  thee 

1  dreamed  a  festal  birth; 
Tides  flowing  sunnily, 
And  Beauty  nursing  earth. 

Thine  advent,  like  a  rose 
On  a  cursed  and  dying  tree. 
Should  make  the  winds  lie  close. 
And  turn  Time's  head  to  see. 

On  all  the  laughing  roads 
No  lack  of  song  and  bread; 
No  stricken,  hushed  abodes. 
No  drifts  of  tattered  dead. 

But  oh,  'tis  poverty 
That  pays  thy  natal  cost. 
And  the  grey  hag.  Misery, 
Is  she  who  tends  thee  most. 
113 


THE    COMING 

And  they  who  knew  thee  not. 
May  they  forbearance  win 
From  the  bleeding  hands  that  brought 
Thee,  pallid  starveling,  in ! 


114 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

I 

He  shone,  a  fleshless  glow 

That  lit  the  column's  base; 

A  sprout  of  fire  earth  could  not  grow; 

A  passion  and  a  will 

Fed  by  a  far,  exhaustless  grace 

From  cruse  invisible. 

Archbuilder  of  the  word; 

But  vision  vain  he  flung 

Upward  and  outward  like  a  bird 

That  could  not  find  a  bough. 

Though  knowing  somewhere  woods  were  young, 

Waiting  the  wing  and  vow. 

Vain,  for  the  pallid  crowd 

Motion  nor  motive  knew. 

They,  like  the  quick  within  a  shroud. 

Seemed  dead  to  all  but  Death, 

So  still,  so  stonily  they  drew 

Their  unsurrendered  breath. 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

What  of  the  father,  God? 

Let  him  still  turn  and  sleep. 

He  had  for  them  but  curse  and  rod, 

And  they  would  let  him  be. 

Old  father  Thames  who  drowned  so  deep 

Cared  even  as  much  as  he. 

There,  not  to  measure  Him 

With  rebel  thumb  and  nail, 

Thwart  curse  and  dare  His  whim. 

But  like  lost  leaves  upcast 

By  meddling  search  of  some  chance  gale. 

To  huddle  when  'twas  past. 


II 

Chiselled  in  haze  and  sun. 

So  slimly  fair  aloft. 

The  towers  where  Mammon  staked  and  won, 

Solid,  square-set  and  sure. 

Held  to  the  sky  their  templed,  soft 

Invincible  allure. 

ii6 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

Vainly  the  prophet  cried; 

He  with  the  voice  of  ten; 

Vainly  he  said  those  gray  stones  lied; 

Mirage  they  surely  were, 

To  fade  would  men  but  tread  as  men. 

Knowing  a  stone  from  air. 

Fool !    Bowed  my  heart  for  him. 

Cabled  to  every  land, 

Those  phantom  piles  that  towered  dim, 

Were  founded  'neath  the  sea, 

And  would  in  might  untrembling  stand 

Till  land  should  cease  to  be. 

For  blood  of  Commerce  runs 

Bold  arteried  as  life. 

Her  pennoned  forts,  her  mounted  guns. 

Are  the  palms  on  every  coast; 

And  dreams  that  stir  to  end  her  strife 

But  armor  new  her  host. 

These  tattered  shadows,  rags. 
What  could  their  blows  attain? 
117 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

Soon  prostrate  as  the  thin  marsh  flags 
The  strong  salt  runlets  seek? 
Come,  gods,  and  laugh  again; 
Let*s  still  be  gay  and  Greek  1 

III 

As  a  mist  tugs  at  a  wood. 

Three  sighs  turned  me  about. 

Where  gray  as  thought  a  woman  stood, 

With  eyes,  sunk  to  a  stare, 

Making  a  cavern  of  the  clout 

That  hid  her  brow  and  hair. 

Starved  arms,  yet  sovereign,  prest 

A  bundled  kingdom  still. 

Was  milk  within  that  shrunken  breast? 

I  doubted  till  I  saw 

A  tiny  hand  that  flashed  me  thrill 

From  life's  unthwarted  law. 

A  hand  so  slight,  so  white; 
Drift  caught  on  shores  of  men; 
No  gosling  down  could  lie  more  light; 
Ii8 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

How  could  it  cling  and  stay? 
A  snowflake  falling  on  it  then 
Had  pushed  it  quite  away. 

Yet  mightily  it  held 

My  soul  in  aching  charm; 

Till  I,  white  as  itself,  was  stilled 

On  mountains  of  surmise, 

Waiting  with  Time  the  high  alarm 

For  worlds  to  rock,  and  rise. 

A  hand  that  yet  so  slight. 
From  dreaming  ooze  had  thrust 
The  airward  man;  with  unfelt  might 
Had  led  from  den  and  cave; 
And  something  made  of  body's  dust 
That  should  not  know  a  grave. 

IV 

No  more  the  magic  kept 
From  my  unseeing  stare; 
Divine  to  faces  gray  it  leapt, 
Godly  transmuting  them; 
119 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

Lit  was  the  steaming,  weary  square, — 
Dreamers*  Jerusalem ! 

O  Self,  how  small  thou  art ! 

How  soon  thou  wouldst  be  down. 

Past  travelling,  but  for  the  part 

That  greater  is  than  thee 

Which  thou  in  every  babe  dost  own, — 

Thyself  in  men  to  be ! 

With  set  and  paling  lips 

We  gain  from  ground  to  ground. 

From  grave  to  comrade  grave  our  steps 

Measure  the  mocking  wild; 

But  who  would  fall  till  he  has  found 

A  green  hill  for  his  child? 

Has  found  a  homeward  lane. 

Willow  and  sycamore. 

Blue  curl  of  smoke  and  south-blown  vane. 

The  wheat  ears  heavy  and  brown. 

Song  and  an  open  door. 

And  a  path  to  Athens  town? 

I20 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 


I  bowed  my  heart,  the  fool, 

To  lift  it  wise  as  they 

Who  knew  their  own;  no  tragic  tool. 

But  life  unlocked  and  free; 

Yet  strange  in  every  eye  there  lay 

Rebuking  pain  for  me. 

Then  from  its  dark  my  soul 

Rose  to  that  light  of  pain. 

And  heard  at  last  those  high  words  roll; 

"Hunger  for  bread  is  loss; 

Hunger  for  stars  is  gain; 

We  change,  not  lose,  the  cross. 

"More  shall  the  man-child  have 

Than  his  filled  granaries. 

The  healing  oil,  the  body*s  salve. 

These  will  concern  him  not. 

When  as  his  breath  they  shall  be  his. 

And  as  his  breath  forgot. 

121 


BALLAD  OF  TRAFALGAR  SQUARE 

"Yet  hungering  he  shall  spur, 

Quit  of  the  wilderness 

Whose  leaves  are  spears,  whose  bloody  stir 

Fainter  and  fainter  calls. 

While  blue  from  blue  horizons  press 

And  skies  move  back  their  walls. 

"Hunger  he  shall  to  the  last. 
Mounting  the  conquered  years; 
Know  rack  and  sweet  of  spirit  fast, 
Joy  of  its  climbing  pain. 
Till  he  inherit  from  the  spheres; 
And  what  shall  stand  between  ?  " 

Upward  earth's  tremor  ran; 

Volcanic  throbbed  the  hours; 

No  fear  was  in  the  heart  of  man; 

David  with  lifted  sling; 

I  looked  again  at  Mammon's  towers; 

God,  they  were  quivering ! 


122 


IV 


INNIS-LOE 

You  wake  slowly  at  Innis-Loe 

If  the  year  is  at  early  March; 

For  Innis-Loe  is  near  the  rice  lands  and  the  sea. 

Slowly,  not  breaking  the  cardinal's  song 

That  began  in  your  sleep. 

If  you  do  not  interrupt  him, 

Or  tilt  his  twig  when  you  throw  back  the  blind. 

He  will  not  call  "wet  weather!" 

And  you  want  to  go  to  the  pool  in  the  woods 

When  the  sun  can  go  with  you. 

Kneeling  its  way  through  the  dark  pines. 

The  shadows  there  are  thick  as  walls, 

And  as  you  go  you  will  want  to  cling 

To  a  little  finger  of  the  sun. 

You  step  through  the  big  window. 
Shaking  the  dreams  from  you. 
But  they  fall  about  your  knees  and  feet. 
And  you  push  along  slowly 
Through  the  land  of  Aladdin. 
125 


INNIS-LOE 

You  go  by  the  barns  where  the  mild  folk  live, 

The  big  animals  with  soft  eyes 

And  four  helpless  feet; 

No  hands  that  may  carry  guns  and  bayonets 

At  the  cry  of  the  elders. 

The  soft  eyes  question,  but  you  can  not  wait. 

You  come  to  the  proud  gardens 

And  they  quiver  with  welcome. 

But  they  do  not  hold  you. 

The  violets  march  purpling  toward  you, 

And  become  meekly  blue  when  you  pass. 

YouVe  only  a  glance  for  the  snowdrops. 

Nuns  with  no  altar, 

Offering  themselves  to  your  feet; 

Only  an  upward  nod  for  the  climbing  jasmine. 

And  the  wistaria's  hanging  clouds; 

For  what  is  mere  beauty 

When  the  great  pines  swell  on  the  horizon, 

A  black-foamed  sea 

Whose  voice  is  in  your  heart? 

The  jasmine's  gold  is  fakir's  gold 
This  year  that  is  not  of  our  Lord; 
126 


INNIS-LOE 

There  is  blood  on  the  magnolia  cups 

That  meant  to  be  so  white; 

When  they  hold  out  their  fragrance 

Your  nostrils  shrivel  with  the  tang  of  blood 

That  dried  and  turned  black  in  Tulsa, 

In  Elaine,  in  Mingo,  and  in  places 

Where  the  sun  would  never  shine  if  it  knew. 

But  deep  in  the  vine-haired  forest. 

Behind  the  black  wall  of  the  pines. 

The  pool  lies  like  a  guarded  maiden, 

And  you  hear  her  whisper: 

"Do  not  fear,  little  heart ! 

Men  took  a  world  from  my  wilderness, 

And  broke  it  as  a  plaything. 

But  it  is  coming  back  to  us, 

The  keepers  of  life." 

And  the  green  ropes  of  the  running  bamboo 
Echo  along  their  tangled  miles, 
"Do  not  fear,  little  heart; 
Our  cables  will  hold." 


127 


RELEASED 

Leaving  behind  us  the  puddling  swamp-woods 
With  their  spidery  vines  smothering  the  sun, 
And  their  slim,  spinsterly  cypress  trees 
That  spread  suddenly  toward  the  earth 
Like  the  skirts  of  1890, 
We  came  to  the  bare,  flat  Carolina  land 
Where  the  lemon  haze  of  the  hot  horizon 
Crept  closer  and  closer,  like  a  circling  tiger. 

The  sun  was  a  merciless  burning-glass 

Fixed  above  us; 

The  snake  of  smoke  leaving  the  engine 

Tried  to  writhe  away  from  it; 

And  the  cinders  that  bit  and  stung  through  the 

windows 
Seemed  mad  for  refuge. 
Six  cool  peaches  in  a  white  split  basket 
Could  not  please  me. 
How  long  should  we  drag  our  bodies  over   the 

earth  ? 

128 


RELEASED 

Scrubbing  them,  dressing  them,  taking  them  along 
With  the  mind  pinned  in  them  like  Ariel  in  the 
tree? 

At  a  little  dab  of  a  junction 

The  train  gasped  motionless, 

And  the  heat  piled  quivering  about  us. 

The  tiny,  square  station  rose  on  four  wooden  pins 

As  sturdy  as  ambitious  matches 

And  strained  vainly  away  from  the  dirt. 

Up  and  down  the  yellow  pine  walls 

The  heat  ran  with  a  smoking  dazzle, 

Making  narrow  slits  of  our  eyes. 

The  woman  came  out  of  that  toasting  box 
And  climbed  on  the  train. 
She  had  the  face  that  marries  at  seventeen 
Out  of  wonder  and  wistfulness. 
And  at  twenty-seven  is  mothering  five. 
The  five  trailed  with  her,  their  hands  clinging, 
Making  a  little  human  chain 

Fastened  by  the  youngest,  leech-wise,  to  her  breast. 
129 


RELEASED 

She  was  so  trim  and  tiny 

That  she  seemed  made  to  hold  life  only; 

So  small  that  she  looked  lonely  in  half  my  seat. 

Though  the  baby  spread  round  the  compass. 

Six  times  her  body,  and  the  heat ! 

But  triumph  hung  over  her. 

And  adventure  became  speech. 

"Yes'm,  Fve  been  waitin*  here  five  hours. 
I  got  a  train  at  Bennettsville  early  daybreak. 
And  had  to  change  here  at  the  junction, 

"Yes'm,  it  was  hot  in  the  station. 
Not  cool  like  it  is  with  the  train  goin*, 
But  I  got  a  good  rest. 
I  had  to  be  up  at  three  o'clock 
An*  that's  early  for  childuhn. 

"You're  right,  ma'am,  they're  good  childuhn. 

Annie's  a  bit  whiny,  just  over  the  fever. 

But  the  baby  don't  cry  hardly  at  all. 

Though  his  father  died  two  months  befoh  he  was 

bahn, 
An'  that  makes  a  cryin'  baby,  they  say. 

130 


RELEASED 

"Oh,  yes'm,  Tm  strong. 

I  was  up  five  nights  with  Annie,  an'  the  heat  made 

it  bad. 
You  don't  feel  one  night,  but  five  make  the  feet 

heavy. 
An*  there  was  the  baby  needin'  me  by  day. 
But  seein*  your  child  whiter  *n  her  pillow 
Makes  you  hold  out. 
You  know  how  that  is,  ma'am. 

"Yes'm,  Vm  movin'  down  to  Sumter. 

My  brother  wrote  I  could  get  sewin'  down  there. 

An*  I've  got  to  feed  the  childuhn  somehow. 

Their  father  was  a  good  man. 

He  was  a  carpenter,  an*  folks  liked  his  work; 

But  there  was  so  many  to  buy  for  it  kept  him 

pushed. 
I  didn't  go  in  debt  for  the  funeral  though. 
The  furniture  brought  enough  for  that. 
He  was  a  good  man,  an*  all  he  made  went  to  his 

fam'ly. 


131 


RELEASED 

"Yes'm,  it's  hard  when  the  biggest  can't  more'n 

wash  himself. 
It  was  growin'  twelve  when  I  quit  last  night. 
All  the  little  shirts  and  dresses  to  do  up. 
An'  gettin'  out  at  three  did  cut  into  my  sleep. 
But  I've  got  this  far,  an'  I  like  to  travel,  don't 

you? 

"No'm,  I'm  not  pinin'. 

"No'm,  I'm  not  afraid  I  can't  raise  'em. 
Seems  to  me  I've  got  a  chance  now. 
The  baby  '11  soon  be  out  o'  my  lap; 
An' — you  see — there  won't  he  any  mover 

She  whispered  It, 
But  I  felt  the  words  as  a  shout. 
The  wilted  face  gleamed; 
She  was  Deborah  singing. 


132 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

Long  have  I  carried 

The  bread  of  the  world. 

Now  my  waves,  rolling  into  the  harbors. 

Lap  the  rust  on  the  dying  ships 

And  emptily  roll  back. 

My  busy,  white-rimmed  runners 

That  went  so  cockily  into  the  bays  of  Long  Island, 

Hurried  back  in  dismay,  whispering  under  the  wind 

Of  the  rows  of  ships  locked  together, 

Dully  awaiting  death. 

They  had  given  them  my  message, — 

Of  moons  that  would  draw  them  through  night 

With  a  thread  of  silver; 

Of  suns  with  high,  invisible  hammers 

Beating  their  masts  into  hold; 

Of  winds  opening  like  the  gates 

Of  fair,  floating  cities 

^33 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

That  my  architects,  light  and  color  and  cloud, 
Build  and  rebuild  for  their  lovers  that  sail. 
But  the  ships  could  only  quiver  and  sway 
Against  their  taut  chains. 

Then  I  sent  my  great  blue-green  waves 

To  the  wide  harbor  of  the  West; 

My  waves  with  broad  shoulders  and  deep,  swelling 

flanks, — 
Telling  them  to  bear  out  the  proud  masts, 
Score  upon  score. 
They  rolled  back  to  me, 
And  I  felt  in  their  curling  surge 
The  strange  water  of  tears. 
For  they  bore  no  idols  of  venture; 
Only  drifting  waste  from  the  dying  hulls. 

To  the  river-mouths  of  Europe 
I  urged  my  eager  children. 
And  felt  their  far  wonder 
As  they  returned  unladen. 
Line  upon  line  they  had  seen  the  strong  ships 
Stretching  away  till  the  gray  lid  of  the  sky 

134 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

Shut  upon  them;  ships  that  would  never  leave  shore 

Till  they  dropped  from  their  chains 

And  bit  by  bit  came  back  to  my  bosom. 

Now  1  listen  to  my  winds. 

And  they  tell  strange  tales  to  one 

Who  has  carried  to  and  fro  the  bread  of  the  world. 

They  tell  me  of  a  land 

Where  a  mother  faltered  out  to  the  roadside, 

And  gathered  dried  grass  to  bake  with  clay. 

That  her  children,  white  and  marrowless. 

Might  grow  more  numb 

Under  the  fastened  tooth  of  Death. 

And  a  tale  of  another  land 

Where  the  grain  and  corn  break  from  the  bins. 

And  men  gaze  on  the  harvest  as  on  a  ruin. 

For  they  can  not  sell,  and  land  and  roof 

Must  go  to  the  stranger. 

It  is  not  ease  after  toil  that  awaits  them; 

Debt  and  Fear  shadow  their  door; 

Going  and  coming  they  feel  a  harrying  hand 

Creep  colder  and  closer  to  the  heart. 

m 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

I  hear  of  one — and  another,  and  another, — 

Who  looked  over  his  fields  with  a  last  unhidden 

anguish, 
And  cursing  his  hollow  abundance 
Abandoned  a  life  without  hope. 

Why  do  the  ships  rot? 
Why  have  I  nothing  to  do 
When  hunger  kills  in  the  East 
And  plenty  kills  in  the  West? 

It  is  not  long  since  the  ships 

Were  a  throng  on  my  waters. 

They  were  carrying  bright  youths 

To  slay  and  be  slain. 

I  ceased  to  count  them  as  they  sped  in  the  service 

of  Death. 
Why  now  are  they  still  when  Life  would  charter 

their  wings? 
Life  that  cries  as  a  child, 
That  groans  as  a  mother; 
That  shields  a  last  spark  on  a  million  brows 
While  the  death-frost  gathers  and  the  ships  delay? 
136 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

Once  I  slept  and  woke  trembling. 

For  I  had  dreamed  of  a  rival. 

A  voice  grew  in  me  and  said 

That  whatever  I  was,  man  was  yet  more. 

I  was  mystery,  and  he  read  me; 

Of  my  own  salt  drops  he  made  a  seer's  crystal. 

I  was  terror  and  tempest,  and  he  bored  me  through 

With  an  auger  of  light. 

My  tides  and  deluding  currents 

Were  as  his  playing  fingers. 

In  me  unrevealing. 

Nature  no  longer  could  hide  her  strange  altars; 

Could  not  cover  her  defeats. 

And  drown  beyond  angling  query 

Her  piled  and  broken  gods. 

Now  I  know  the  voice  was  false. 
Only  a  child  would  waste  the  sea. 

I  have  smoothed  out  my  waves 
That  ache  for  the  touch  of  the  keels; 
I  have  mated  with  the  blue  sky; 
137 


THE    SEA    ASKS 

My  winds  are  feather  fans  half  shut. 
O  men,  send  me  your  ships ! 
Let  me  carry  again 
The  bread  of  the  world. 


138 


TO    JOHN    REED 

You  ought  to  have  known  better,  John, 

Than  to  follow  a  star  with  the  world  on  your  toes. 

You  thought  you  would  find  her  little  hand. 

The  little  hand  of  the  world, 

And  lead  her  up  the  mountain; 

But  you  forgot  her  great,  stumbling  toes; 

And  that  little  hand  was  tucked  away  in  filthy 

rags. 
She  has  had  too  many  nurses; 
The  headless  nurse,  with  long  claws. 
Always  trying  to  drag  her  back  to  the  cradle. 
And  fight  for  her,  killing  all  her  friends; 
The  fat,  old  nurse,  weak  in  the  back  and  eyes. 
Who  keeps  gathering  up  the  rags  the  ages  try  to 

throw  away. 
And  wraps  them  about  her; 
And  the  strong,  skinny  nurse. 
Who  binds  her  like  a  mummy  with  ropes  of  words 
From  ancient  Rome  and  Greece  and  early  England; 

^39 


TO    JOHN    REED 

And  with  all  that  you  thought  you  could  find  her 

little  hand. 
And  lead  her  up  the  mountain. 

But  the  rotten  rags  and  ropes  are  falling; 

She  hears  you  where  you  lie  under  her  feet  urging, 

urging; 
And  some  day  she  will  thrust  out  the  little  hand 
And  reach  for  your  star,  John. 


140 


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